


Reversal

by abysmallydull



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:35:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abysmallydull/pseuds/abysmallydull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has always been the one taking care of Sherlock. What happens when they exchange roles? Written after watching season 1, without seeing season 2 yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It started with one word. Colleague. Sherlock pursed his lips. He didn't realize how unpleasant this word could be until he heard John correct him as he introduced John to Sebastian.

“Friend?” Sebastian had asked.

"Colleague." John interjected immediately, eager to cover the word "friend".

He'd just given John a look then, but didn't say anything. Frankly, he didn't think that he'd really minded that much. But it turned out that he did mind, and his irritation (No, not yet irritation. It was just something that bothered him at the time) chose to manifest itself in the form of an extra ticket to the circus show. It had been easy to justify his actions to himself as wanting to investigate their acrobat and nothing more.

That look on John's face as he turned up by the ticket booth to interrupt his date with Sarah was strangely satisfying. He allowed himself a small smile which quickly faded, chased away by the beep sounding from the machine hooked up to John and bringing him back to the present.

Sherlock ran his eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time over John's sleeping form on the bed. It has been approximately one full day since that incident by the pool and John showed no sign of change since they brought him in the hospital room after the operation. The doctors said that no change is good news; it means he's stable. But he was not entirely convinced that that qualified as good news. No change means that John wouldn't be talking to him and chiding him for his experiments. No change means that John wouldn't be coming home from the grocery after yet another bout with the checkout machine. No change means that John wouldn't be running just behind him and stopping, out of breath, to share a laugh over the absurdity of the situation.

He spent a few more moments just staring at John's chest rising and falling with each breath and suddenly as if unable to sit still for much longer, he started pacing the length of the room until he'd counted backwards and forwards how many steps it took to get back to John's side, with each trip back becoming a little bit faster as he'd imagined he'd turn back to find John looking at him, finally awake.

As suddenly as he'd gotten up to walk, he slumped down on the chair once more, completely drained yet unable to sleep. Unable to even stop thinking for a moment. His mind was filled to the point of overload with every memory connected to John.

"John."

The sound of John's name lingered in the air, and strangely enough, even the mere echo of his name brought a small amount of comfort to Sherlock. Any other time he would've commented, "fascinating" and perhaps started an experiment to test if it would work the same at different times of the day and said with different tones of voice.

But now it only brought him closer to the realization that the increasingly most important person in his life is lying still and unable to sit up with him and talk to him in that matter-of-fact way he does that brings his feet back on solid ground when he gets too lost in his head sometimes. Without the solid dependability of John behind him as he works, he feels disoriented. It was as if the street signs have all been replaced by strange symbols he can't decipher.

"John."

And this time, the sound of his name brought him no comfort. Only the awareness that John wouldn't reply to his call.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sherlock slowly lowered the gun until it was aimed right at the bomb jacket. The lights were blinking, as if counting down. 3... He gripped the gun tighter. 2... He slowly squeezed the trigger. 1..._

 _A deafening sound. But where he expected the sound to be swallowed by a still larger sound, all he heard was the echo of the shot and his own ragged breathing. Something was wrong. He had shot the bomb jacket. There was no way he missed that from this distance. The light had stopped blinking. He was aware of observing a knowing smirk on Moriarty’s face and then of a sensation of someone slumping against his back. ‘John’, his brain supplied. John had jumped up to try to cover Sherlock from the imminent blast, but instead he ended up covering Sherlock from-_

 _“The sniper.”_

 _He was surprised by the sound of his own voice, calm and steady. He was merely stating an observation. Moriarty’s knowing smirk grew wider._

 _He dragged his eyes away from Moriarty’s face with effort, his brain saying that this was a dangerous man and he needed to keep his eyes and gun trained on him while another part was screaming “John!” over and over. He blinked. It seemed that his body decided to take over, as he found himself down on his knees and supporting John’s weight. His eyes flickered quickly over John’s form and he almost wished that he couldn’t see the_ details _. Better not to see how ashen John was starting to look, or how his jaws were clenched tightly against the pain, or how warm his hand was becoming with John’s blood, ‘Shot in the back. Right shoulder this time, near his shoulder blade, judging from where he was bleeding’, his brain added to the cacophony._

 _He must’ve looked mad, his brain processing and running too fast for his body to keep up, his eyes going back and forth frantically between John and Moriarty still standing in front of him._

 _Moriarty chuckled, obviously amused at Sherlock’s predicament. And then he levelled him with a hard stare._

 _“I am a man of my words, Sherlock Holmes. You’d best keep that in mind.” Moriarty said menacingly. And just as suddenly, like a switch being flipped, he was back to being almost bored. “_ Now _I’m leaving. Really. You might get spoiled by all the surprises I’ve given you. I’ll see you later, my dear.” And once more he was gone._

 _Too late, Sherlock realized that he still had the gun gripped tightly in his hand. That he still had some shots remaining. That a bullet should have been put through that man who had promised to burn the heart out of him._

 _That last thought was like a lit match that caught fire in his head until his mind was consumed with just one thing._

 _“John!” He needed to save John. He cannot lose John._

 _Frantic, he let go of the now useless gun and gently lowered John’s figure onto the swimming pool tiles._

 _“John, are you all right?” A stupid question, but it was all he had. He was scared that John wouldn’t answer, won’t be able to answer. Blood was starting to pool on the floor._

 _John groaned._

 _Relief that John was at least still alive coursed through Sherlock’s veins and his hands steadied as he dialled for an ambulance. The wail of an ambulance pierced through the air before he had even finished the call. Moments later, a group of paramedics was gathering around John, one of them pulling him aside to check him for injuries. He submitted to the examination, wordlessly watching the procedures as John was carried away. It was all done in a flash, the wail of the ambulance sounding again, this time growing fainter and fainter. He was left with a few more members of the medical team. He waved off the more persistent of them who was trying to get him to come in for a more thorough check up._

 _He knew it was Mycroft’s doing. His meddlesome brother was once more following his every move. Although this time, he couldn’t complain. Not when his meddling would be the one thing to save John’s life._

 _“John.” The name came automatically to his lips._

“Sherlock.”

The sound of his name jolted him out of his thoughts. Immediately, his eyes jerked to John’s form on the bed, only belatedly realizing that it can’t have been John. The tone, volume, and location of the sound were all wrong, and it was a testament to Sherlock’s exhaustion that he missed the obvious. Or maybe it was a testament to the hope, edging on desperation for John to be all right that was overriding logic. Either way, it all added to his irritability towards this day’s intruder. He sank back on the chair, determined to ignore everything and everyone not John.

Mycroft pursed his lips in a manner not unlike Sherlock’s. He recognized that stubborn tilt of his younger brother’s head.

“You can’t sit there all day...” A glance at the state of Sherlock’s clothes, his hair, and his countenance. “...for another day, Sherlock. You need to sleep and eat. I don’t need another person on a hospital bed.”

Silence.

“The hospital has visiting hours, you know. I don’t think they’ll take kindly to your continuing violation of their rules.”

Sherlock actually shifted so half of his back was now facing Mycroft.

“He’s not leaving, Sherlock.” Mycroft said pointedly.

At this, Sherlock was suddenly on his feet, fists clenched and eyes flashing danger. If Mycroft dares mock him at this time, just when John is still badly hurt, there was going to be another person on a hospital bed and it’s not going to be him.

“He’s going to be fine,” Mycroft said, his sharp eyes not missing anything. He didn’t flinch from Sherlock’s gaze.

They stayed still for a few moments, weighing each others’ words, but more importantly reading what was left unsaid. Sherlock sat back down.

“I know,” Sherlock said, not altogether mollified but now calm enough to actually consider his brother’s words. Of course he’s right. He always infuriatingly was. John would recover. And he would have to eat and sleep sometime. In the future. Maybe in a week.

“There’ll be a cab waiting for you downstairs in a few minutes,” Mycroft said, as if aware of his brother’s thoughts. Sherlock refused to respond to that. Mycroft sighed. He took a couple of steps to John’s bedside, just checking how he was. Sherlock shifted impatiently and huffed out a breath, willing Mycroft to stop staring at John.  Mycroft stepped back at last, everything being as he expected. He nodded his goodbye to Sherlock. “Good morning then, Sherlock. Do try to take care of yourself.” He left the room, the soft click of the door punctuating his departure.

Sherlock knew that he’d have to leave soon. Mycroft would see to that. He felt uneasy about leaving John alone though, remembering vividly what happened the last time he let John out of his sight.

But surely it was illogical to think that just because it happened once, it was going to happen again in the future. The situation now is very different. There are doctors and nurses all over the place, plus he knew Mycroft was keeping a close watch on John. He’s as safe as he could be. So why was he being irrational?

‘Because it didn’t happen just once’, he thought. The first time he let John out of his sight, he got kidnapped by the Black Lotus gang. The second time, he got outfitted in a bomb jacket. With each succeeding incident, John has ended up worse off. Going along those lines, there was only one logical conclusion.

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock said to John’s general direction. But whether or not those words were meant for the sleeping occupant or not was unclear. After a final look at John’s peaceful form, he impatiently ran a hand through his hair and stomped towards the door, making as much noise as was allowable. At the last moment, he turned back, almost convinced that the racket had woken John and expecting to be berated.

The steady beep of the machine answered him.

“You _are_ an idiot.”

This time, the words were clearly meant for him.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock returned to their flat on Baker St. He’s feeling a bit unsettled for being what he thought as overly sentimental while waiting at John’s side. He doesn’t claim to understand the reasons for that though he supposed it was because of sitting still for too long without really exerting his mind to cracking a case or solving a puzzle. Having no outlet at the time, he had found himself replaying and analyzing everything that happened in excruciating detail, and not being satisfied with that he’d come up with various “what ifs” stemming from the actual events.

There was only one conclusion: clearly sitting still is not for him.

He decided that he needed to remedy it immediately lest he drive himself crazy by bugging Lestrade to give him some work.

A bath, a piece of toast with butter, an hour’s nap, and too many text exchanges later, he was on the way to Scotland Yard. The usual anticipation that accompanies him on trips like these was strangely absent, and it only added to his uneasiness at leaving John alone for so long. He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

Lestrade greeted him with a nod and thankfully didn’t make any small talk but just handed him the files related to the case they were to be working on. He seemed to recognize Sherlock’s restlessness, which was both a good and a bad thing. Good because it kept Lestrade from delaying his work further, and bad because if even Lestrade can see it, then it must be really that obvious.

Sherlock glanced cursorily at the top file.

“Nothing stolen?” Sherlock asked.

“As far as we can see, no. It seemed as if their only object was to unlock the flat and knock aside the bowl of peanuts on the side table.” Lestrade answered.

“They did a messy job.” Sherlock observed, looking at the picture of the scene.

“That’s one way of describing it.”

“This...” Sherlock paused and pursed his lips. It seemed too trivial on the surface; it wasn’t even a crime. He looked to Lestrade, who coughed and looked away. So, it was just something to distract him.

“It’s not the only house broken into, but it’s the only one without any theft,” Lestrade explained almost defensively. He handed Sherlock another piece of paper, this time with addresses. “The methods are quite similar although not always the same.”

“A group then.”

“Perhaps,” Lestrade agreed.

Sherlock studied the details of the case before him, all set down neatly on the pages.

He could also see, just as easily as if it had been printed out for him, the reasons for Lestrade’s choice. A string of minor robberies; no casualties, minimal loss of property – not urgent. He supposed the detective inspector was worried about him dropping the case just as quickly as he picked it up once he gets news that John has regained consciousness. He smirked a little as he knew he had deduced it correctly, and then felt his smirk falter as he realized that the detective inspector had deduced _him_ perfectly: he would, indeed, drop the case if he knew that there has been an improvement in John’s condition, no matter how small.

Scowling, he continued down his mental list. Minor theft, even if they’re connected, is not something that would hold his attention. The latest case was an oddity. It was the only one without anything stolen. The bowl of peanuts knocked over was indicative of haste, but judging from the careful work on the lock, they’d had plenty of time at the outset. So, it was mildly interesting which would have to be the hook to get him to take the job. He couldn’t deny his curiosity now that he had seen the case details, so he supposed it was a good call on Lestrade’s part.

Sherlock looked at the file again. Some of the addresses were quite a distance from London. So, a case that would require a lot of legwork then. Not a bad choice for a distraction, he supposed. He pocketed the list of addresses and returned the rest of the files to Lestrade.

“I’ll text you.” Sherlock said as his way of acknowledging that he would take the job. He pulled open the door to Lestrade’s office.

“Take care, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, with no small amount of relief in his face and voice, but with a little more gravity than usual.

Sherlock merely nodded in acknowledgement.

He spent the first day going to the farthest addresses, while he still had the willpower to resist worrying constantly about John and about being too far away. The next day though, he decided that he didn't need to see all the houses and just stuck to checking those inside London. On the third day, he decided that he needed to think, and he always thinks better when he speaks so he dropped by the hospital to do just that.

He paced relentlessly in the hospital room as he told John about the case and what information he had gathered so far. He also talked about his theories and his plans and what else he needed to do to solve the case. Finally he just sat there, waiting for any response from John. Once more, it was the steady beep of the machine which answered him.

“It would help, you know, if you actually spoke instead of beeping away,” Sherlock told John.

Beep. Beep.

“Come on, man, you’ve always had something to say.”

Beep. Beep.

He barked out a laugh that was lacking in humor. Is he actually having a conversation with a heart monitor? Suddenly having a row with a pin and chip machine doesn’t seem that absurd. He contemplated going back to the flat, but he knew that the question was moot. It was better to hear the beep of the machines than to listen to the silence at home.

He took off early next morning, more determined than ever to get to the bottom of this case. It wasn’t strange for him to be so driven to finding the solution; what was strange was the impatience with which he dealt with it. It was almost as if it was t _he work_ was the distraction.

It was late in the evening that day when he finally handed his conclusions to Lestrade. The object of the break-ins were not to steal: it was to plant bugs. Those houses which had been broken into either belong to the rich or the famous (or trying to be famous, at the very least). There were some people from the media as well. There were a couple more details that need to be confirmed, for example, where those bugs where from and to whom they transmit information. However for him, the case was as good as closed. Let the police take care of the more tedious parts.

He headed for the flat, resolutely ignoring the pull of the hospital. He later realized that he should’ve just gone straight to the hospital and spared himself the headache.

Mycroft was waiting for him in the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson had been obliging enough to let him in to wait.

“What a pleasant surprise,” greeted Sherlock bitingly.

“Indeed,” Mycroft answered. So he was going for ‘sarcastic’ as well. “Nice to see you being so active. Another case solved, I suppose?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. It wasn’t really a question. Of course Mycroft knew. He looked sharply at Mycroft sitting on the chair, his mind calculating. It’s not a case he’s here about; otherwise he would’ve called him instead of waiting here. He knew Mycroft hated wasting time. So if it’s not a case, God forbid is he showing some brotherly sympathy because John is still in the hospital? That makes more sense, but he couldn’t imagine either one of them going for that. It would’ve been a completely useless gesture and both of them knew it. So he must have news he wanted to deliver in person and it’s not about Mummy; she was well, he knew it. So it must be...

“What happened to John?” he demanded, looming in front of his brother. He kept his hands in his pockets to stop himself from actually shaking Mycroft and get some answers quickly.

Mycroft got to his feet and suddenly _he_ was the one looming in front of Sherlock. He cocked his head to the side as if berating Sherlock for daring to intimidate him. Then unexpectedly, he broke into a smile.

“He’s awake, Sherlock.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock paid the cabbie and then he slammed the door shut. He really should’ve punched Mycroft for being overly dramatic. He could’ve just called him or asked his secretary to text him; she was constantly on her Blackberry anyway. He climbed up the now familiar stairs up to John’s room. He opened the door just a crack and listened to sounds previously unfamiliar in that room: the sound of conversation. The constant tinny beeping was finally silent and replaced by the warm tones of John.

“...you’ll be needing bed rest of course, but you should be free to go home after we validate a few more tests,” the doctor continued.

“Yes, all right.” John answered.

He waited until they said their goodbyes before pushing the door open slowly the rest of the way. The doctor gave him a polite nod before going his way out; they’d seen him often enough. The door clicked shut, and then it was him and John.

He ran his gaze quickly and thoroughly over John, knowing exactly where to look and what to look for, as he’d had too many hours doing this same thing close to a hundred times before. Finally, he looked at the one thing he’d always wanted to see: John’s eyes, looking back at him.

* * *

John had stayed still, just watching Sherlock as he no doubt catalogued every little detail about him. He waited for Sherlock to look at him, and though he was expecting it, he was still unnerved by the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze that seemed to read every thought that crosses his mind.

Although he had spent the past few days sleeping, as per the doctor’s information, he was still feeling quite sluggish and tired. Nevertheless, finally seeing Sherlock was a huge relief. He’d woken up earlier with his heart pounding and sweat beading on his forehead, convinced that something was wrong, although for the life of him, he couldn’t pinpoint it at that moment. His eyes had quickly scanned the room and he had quickly ascertained that there was no immediate threat. He had just started calming down a little when everything came crashing back. The pool, the bomb jacket, Moriarty, and Sherlock.

He had pushed the button to call the nurse to his room. The first question on his lips was, “Where’s Sherlock?” followed quickly by, “Is he all right?” The nurse’s and the doctor’s reassurances were ineffective, as he had been convinced that they were simply humouring him. It wasn’t until the appearance of Mycroft (for once a welcome sight) that he finally calmed down enough to listen. Sherlock was all right and uninjured.

And now the man himself was here in the room with him, and John felt that all was right again with the world. Yes, he was quite content to just lie down on his bed and bask in Sherlock’s piercing yet comfortingly familiar inspection.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said quietly, still staring.

“Hello, Sherlock,” replied John, a little confused by the greeting but going along with it anyway. Strangely enough, at his reply Sherlock seemed to relax, and the tension that was filling the room eased. Sherlock crossed the room in long strides to stand by his bedside.

“How are you feeling?”

“Shitty. Quite shitty,” answered John gravely. A small smile greeted his response.

Then, more seriously, “Are you in pain?” Sherlock asked.

“No, it’s not that. I’m just a bit…disoriented at the moment. Hard to believe I’ve been out for a couple of days. Did you just come back from work?” John asked, confusion wrinkling his forehead.

“Probably the drugs making you disoriented.” Sherlock observed. “Technically, I came from the flat but yes, I did come back from work.” He started pacing the room.

“That.” John’s face cleared. Sherlock stopped immediately to look at John, brow raised.

“I thought I heard you walking around the room when I was knocked out. Talked endlessly too.” John said.

Sherlock stayed still for a moment longer looking at John, and then finally away. He crossed his arms. “Yes, I was here for a bit.”

John knows a defensive posture when he sees one. He smiled a bit. “Bet you were bored out of your mind.”

“I wasn’t bored.” Sherlock said immediately.

“Good news for the wall,” John said. They both smile for real this time.

“So how was the case? You said you came from a job.” John asked.

“Irrelevant. Just some break-ins and bug planting.”

“Victims would love to hear that.”

“Yes, I think they would. Good to know if you’ve been bugged so you can now start exercising precautions.”

* * *

It was the first time in what seemed like too long that their eyes met. Whatever details, information, and deductions running through Sherlock’s head simply stopped and were replaced by relief, strong, quick, and overwhelming.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock had greeted, quietly and almost cautiously. He held himself still, as if he were afraid that any sudden sound or movement would shatter this vision before him, and only relaxed once he heard John replying, “Hello, Sherlock.”

Finally, it was his voice speaking to him, and not the beeping machines which were slowly driving him mad. He had crossed the room quickly to John’s side, covering the distance between them, needing to look at him even more closely and to hear his voice from right beside him.

“How are you feeling?” he had asked, and once more that voice replied to him. He knew that they’d only spoken for a few moments when all at once it was too much; all that information and feeling and sensation coming from being close to John. He quite desperately needed to put some space in between them and so he started pacing the room.

“That.” John’s voice had brought him up short. “I thought I heard you walking around the room when I was knocked out. Talked endlessly too.”

Somehow it felt that admitting that he had spent a whole day waiting and went back again for another day while he was in the middle of a case was embarrassing so he opted for a casual and vague “Yes, I was here for a bit,” which didn’t seem to work at all as John simply smiled as if he knew what he was trying to avoid saying.

But John didn’t pursue it and instead, obligingly brought their conversation back to work.

* * *

They fell silent after a while. Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before John brought up the incident by the pool. He walked over to the window to look at the city and at John who was reflected in the glass.

“What happened then, with Moriarty?” John asked quietly.

And there it is. He drew breath before he answered. “The bomb didn’t go off. It was a fake. I should’ve expected that; he said he didn’t like getting his hands dirty. Judging from the amount of explosives in that vest, it should have been enough to take down a house. If it had been a real bomb and it exploded, all of us would’ve been in danger. I can’t imagine him taking such a big risk when it wasn’t at all necessary. No, he wanted to make a point.”

“Which is?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock said, as he turned from the window to face John. He caught the look of confusion on John’s face. “No?” He turned back to the window, determination and frustration tightening his jaw. In his head, he could still hear Moriarty promising, ‘I will burn the heart out of you.’

“Sherlock?” John asked, uncertain.

He stayed silent for a little while longer before he spoke again. “Thank you, John. You know, for jumping in to cover me…for saving me.” He said with gravity, although a little awkwardly.

John nodded in acknowledgement and understanding. He seemed to recognize that Sherlock didn’t want to speak of that incident, at least not now. “Yes, well, you can pay me back later,” he said trying to lighten the dark mood that seemed to come over Sherlock.

“Who do you think is paying for all of these?” Sherlock asked, turning slowly as he waved his hand around the room.

“Mycroft is,” John deadpanned.

“Quite right.” The grin was back on Sherlock’s face once more.

“You still owe me then. Maybe this time you can really get the groceries? You know, milk, beans, some jam maybe…”

“I will.” Sherlock promised. John relaxed back into his pillows.

What John didn’t know was that the promise to get the groceries also came with the promise never to leave him alone again and never to deliberately lie to him as he did that night. A fierce protectiveness washed over Sherlock as he looked at John, who had closed his eyes once more to get more rest. He promised himself he would never come this close to losing him again.


	5. Chapter 5

John came home with Sherlock the next day to find the flat even messier than usual. He looked around the room wryly. Sherlock caught the look on John’s face and started straightening things up haphazardly. A couple of books there, some letters over here, and beakers to the other side. John watched Sherlock bemusedly and made his way to his chair. It was surprisingly uncluttered, unlike the rest of the flat surfaces in the room. Well, it was mostly uncluttered. John picked up the skull sitting on his chair.

“Care to explain?” John asked. Sherlock looked up from in front of the fireplace.

“Well, it made sense to put in on your chair since it _was_ standing in for you.” Sherlock took the skull off his hands and carelessly placed it on the mantel. John laughed before he settled in his seat, being careful not to jostle his right arm, which was currently in a sling.

“So, back to the skull I see,” he said, amused.

“If you must know, it was a complete failure.”

John looked at the skull grinning at him from its rightful place. “It’s good to be back.”

“John, are _you_ talking to the skull now?”

“It looks like I’ve picked up some bad habits from a certain consulting detective.”

At this point John's phone chimed a message. He moved to get it from his jacket, only to have it taken out of his hands and replaced by a glass of milk by Sherlock, who just came back from the kitchen.

"Sherlock..." John said, with an expression that can only be described as a 'what is this' look.

"It's milk," Sherlock answered, seemingly endeavouring to be patient. That look was still on John's face. "I heard that it was supposed to be good for your bones."

"Thank you, I guess," John said, still unsure but at least the 'what is this' expression has been replaced by 'I don't know what's happening but at least nothing's been blown up yet so it's all fine.'

“It’s from Lestrade,” Sherlock said, looking at the phone. “He’s asking how you’re doing.” He pauses. “What should I tell him?”

John’s eyebrows raised at this. Sherlock tried to ignore it.

“Tell him I’m fine and I’m home,” John said slowly, gauging. Sherlock dutifully typed out the message.

“Thank you.” Sherlock typed again.

“I mean, thank you, Sherlock.” Sherlock looked up from the phone. He nodded a bit, seemingly unsure how to respond to a simple ‘thank you’.

“So is that it? The message to Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, bringing his attention back to the phone.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Hm.” Sherlock began typing again.

“What are you typing?”

“Hm?” Sherlock, a little distracted. A small beep sounded that let John know the message has been sent. He handed the phone back to John, who immediately checked the sent messages.

 _Sent Messages  
I’m fine and I’m home. – JW  
Please stop bothering John with useless questions. He needs rest and quiet, as per doctor’s orders. – SH_

John shook his head with a little smile. He slipped the phone back in his jacket pocket. A few moments later, his phone beeped again. Sherlock moved forward quickly and took it smoothly from his pocket.

“Lestrade.” That was the only explanation he got as Sherlock texted furiously. As Sherlock was slipping the phone back in John’s pocket, it rang.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock answered.

“That’s still my phone, Sherlock,” John pointed out. “Not that it’s really mattered,” he said mostly to himself as Sherlock talked on _his_ phone. From what he can hear, it’s Lestrade about a case Sherlock has been working on.

“I’ve already given you everything you need to close that case, Lestrade.” A pause, as Lestrade no doubt answered back.

“I don’t need you to remind me.” A few moments more, and then Sherlock ended the call, this time slipping John’s phone into his own pocket, John observed wryly. Well, he supposed it was all right, seeing as Sherlock seemed to be taking over the texting and calling duties. It was actually quite nice for a change.

John’s eyes followed Sherlock around the flat. He seemed to be constantly in motion. He picked up the newspaper where it had fallen to the ground in his hasty tidying up of the sitting room earlier. He took the remote control for the television set from its precarious perch on top of the kitchen table (what it was doing there was unclear). Then having both items on hand, he made his way back to where John was sitting and started handing both to him before realizing that John still had his glass of milk on his left hand and his right hand in a sling. He put the newspaper down on the side table and the remote control on John’s lap, and before John could so much as put down his glass, Sherlock was gone again in a whirl of black coat and blue scarf as he donned both.

“Is Italian all right?” Sherlock asked, already half-out of the door.

“Excuse me?” John replied, his brain still trying to catch up.

“For dinner.”

“Ah. Yes. Wait, you’re buying dinner?”

“Nothing to eat in the fridge, unless you’re feeling experimental.”

“Not in the slightest,” John said with a slight grimace as he recalled the more ‘interesting’ items he’d discovered in the fridge in the past.

“Right. I’ll be right back,” Sherlock said as he exited the room. It was quiet for a few seconds before Sherlock poked his head back in.

John waited for Sherlock to say something. “Did you forget anything?” he finally asked, as Sherlock just stared at him.

“You’re all right there?” came Sherlock’s unexpected question.

“Yes, of course.”

Sherlock looked at him for a few seconds longer and then turned and left once more. John heard Sherlock clambering down the stairs as if he were running a race and heard the front door close decisively.

A second bout of silence filled the room, and it didn’t look like it would be disturbed anytime soon by one very energetic and somewhat confusing Sherlock Holmes. John set his glass of milk by the side table. Sherlock actually got milk. What else did he get?

Normally John would have turned on the telly or read some news to pass the time, but he needed the quiet to think for a moment. Now he was quite sure that the doctors didn’t mention any head injuries to him (or to Sherlock, for that matter, based on what Mycroft told him). But, just to be sure, he ran his good hand carefully around his head, trying to feel for any bumps or tender spots. There was nothing.

So, assuming that he is sound of mind if not completely sound of body, it was Sherlock, not him, who was being a little strange. If he didn’t see it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have dared think it, much less say it but, Sherlock was _fussing_. Well, maybe not exactly that, but here were undeniable, physical pieces of evidence: the glass of milk, which was good for his bones; the newspaper, which he liked to read occasionally; and the remote control so he can watch his crap telly. And of course there was the fact that said flatmate was out at the moment getting him dinner. Strange, indeed. But no matter how confusing, at times exasperating, and frequently impatient Sherlock might be, John couldn’t help but feel warmed by the thought that Sherlock was worried over him.

‘Might as well enjoy the special treatment while it lasted’, he thought, as he switched on the telly and settled down while waiting for Sherlock to return.

* * *

Sherlock knew he said he’d be right back, but now he’s stuck at Angelo’s, contemplating the menu. He knew what John ordered the last time they went here and he considered getting the same thing since he knew John liked it, and he didn’t really get the chance to finish it. But he also knew that it was “traditional” to get soup for someone sick. Does that cover injuries? Or was that only for someone suffering from a cold? Should he perhaps get something with more vegetables? Or maybe something light so John can go lie down and rest?

“Where’s your date today, Sherlock?” Angelo asked when he reached his usual table.

“At home, resting,” Sherlock answered distractedly as he went through the menu once more. He stopped for a moment and considered asking Angelo what he recommended; he was sure that Angelo would know what food would be best. But no, he wanted to figure this one out on his own. He wanted to personally figure out everything connected to John.

“So, ready to order?” Angelo prompted with an indulgent smile.

“Yes. And could you do me a favour take the food to our flat?”

“No problem,” Angelo said as he thumped his chest. “You go on ahead and stay with him. I’ll take your food to you as soon as I finish preparing them.”

* * *

After refusing Angelo’s offers to take flowers with him (while another traditional offering to sick people if he were to go by what he sees on the telly, he wasn’t sure John would really appreciate them), Sherlock quickly made his way back to the flat. He’d been a little hesitant to leave John again so soon after they’ve come home but he neglected to get anything else aside from the milk, beans, and jam that John requested. He’d been so set on getting exactly what John wanted, to the exclusion of basically everything else. He doubted that the three would be enough sustenance even if he had combined them somehow into something palatable. It was fortunate that Angelo’s was quite close to the flat. But from here on he was going to have to work something out to make sure that John was never far from him (ideally never out of his sight, but that would be literally impossible). He ran the last few blocks to the flat, his mind already forming a picture of what he would find behind the doors: John, sitting in his chair, the flickering light from the screen bathing his face, patiently waiting for him to come back. It was enough to warm him through and through.


	6. Chapter 6

John Watson is a practical man. He isn’t given much to long periods of thinking and deducing and trying to read people’s intentions or their history. Plus, he knew that Sherlock’s “fussing” phase, as he’d taken to calling it in his head, could be just that: a phase. So rather than trying to understand what’s going on in that great big mind of his flatmate, he figured he’d just settle in and enjoy the ride while it lasted.

When Sherlock came back to the flat empty-handed that first day he got back from the hospital, John couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed – he’d been looking forward to the sight of Sherlock bearing bags containing actual, edible, human food; and a little doubtful – had he imagined their whole exchange before Sherlock left? He watched as Sherlock wordlessly crossed the threshold and went straight to the kitchen where he started clearing off the table. He supposed he should’ve already suspected something by then, but then again, who knows the reason why Sherlock does anything? The man is so mysterious, just about everything he does is suspicious.

“You said you were getting food?” John ended his statement as a question, being not entirely convinced he had his facts straight.

“I did,” came the reply from Sherlock’s back as he worked.

“So…did you actually get food?” John asked, just to be perfectly clear.

Sherlock stopped working and turned to look at John. “Yes, John. I did get food,” and then turned back to clearing the table.

“The food is not going to magically appear on the table, is it?” This sentence, which could easily be sarcastic, was said with so much suspicion that it seemed he thought it was possible.

“Really, John, your imagination is running on overdrive. Perhaps writing really is your calling. But no, no ancient magic here. Just modern ‘magic.’” You could hear the quotation marks as he said the word, “magic,” as clearly as if he had written it down.

And right on cue someone knocked at the door.

“Ah, yes. Our food has ‘appeared.’” Sherlock said in response to the look of realization on John’s face.

“Delivered! Of course.”

“Obviously.”

“Obvious _now_ ,” John muttered as Sherlock went downstairs to get the food. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile a little at that.

A few moments later, John heard the sounds of footsteps coming up to their flat.

"Are you all right, Dr. Watson?" Angelo asked as soon as he reached the landing.

John gaped at Angelo, not because the man was in their flat, no, but because of all the bags of food he had with him. Sherlock appeared right behind.

"He insisted on carrying the bags up here," Sherlock said by explanation, carrying even more bags of food.

"No wonder. Sherlock, you have enough food to feed a small army!"

"I can bring you some more," Angelo piped in. It seems he took the word "small" as a challenge.

"No, no wait... Thank you, Angelo, but I'm quite sure we've got enough food to last us for a while," John said as firmly as he could in the situation.

Angelo looked a little doubtful at that, but thankfully he didn’t push it. He only said instead, “If you need my assistance for anything Dr. Watson, I’m at your service. Any friend of Sherlock is a friend of mine.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Angelo,” John said as his left hand was shaken quite vigorously. Angelo clapped Sherlock on his shoulder before leaving the flat.

John looked at all the bags on the table.

“Sherlock, did you order everything on the menu?”

“Of course not.” And it was true. He only ordered about half.

“So what are we going to do with all the food?”

“Don’t worry about it, and just eat what you like.”

“You’re eating too, of course.”

“I just ate yesterday.”

“You have to eat, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, saw the determined set to John’s jaw, and took two plates and set them on the table without another word.

Even though they’ve been living together for a few months now, it was the first time that they’ve really sat down together to have a proper meal that wasn’t interrupted by Sherlock running out in pursuit of a criminal or more clues. It was nice, John supposed, in its own way, although Sherlock had insisted that he try everything at least once. He thought they would never finish dinner.

After the food incident (which was repeated again until John insisted that Sherlock just bring him the menu and not order everything so he can decide what he wanted), Sherlock seemed to have calmed down, at least in that area. He has now moved on to other things, and now they have a cable subscription and more channels than he can ever hope to watch, which ironically, was what they seem to be doing at the moment.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was carefully documenting all his findings in his head. So far, he had quite a comprehensive chapter on John's food preferences. He would've liked to go into further detail, but after John's reaction to the first two studies, he quickly realized that they won't be going very deep into it. No matter, he can deduce the rest. Plus, he has got the most important points covered, mainly exactly how John likes his tea and toast. John drinks tea as if it were water. He noticed that John licks his lips more frequently when he wants a cup, particularly.

The subject on hand at that moment was what shows John likes to watch on the telly. He figured that since John won't be able to go outside much for the time being, it was obvious he would need something for recreation. Earlier on, he had tried to bring in more interesting experiments, but after John complained for the third time about the body parts and the fire hazard, he decided that it was time for a different course of action. The cable subscription was an off-hand remark from John, but to Sherlock, it seemed the perfect solution, and one that he was still secretly put out over. Of course John watched crap telly; he knew that. He should've been able to come up with that idea on his own.

John watched Sherlock who seemed like a child with a new toy and was just figuring out how to use it. Who would've thought that one of the world's greatest minds could be held hostage by one crappy TV show to the next? John watched telly when there wasn't anything else to do. Sherlock watched it like it was research or something similar. Well, as long as it kept him from doing more dangerous experiments, it was fine.

"John, what do think about this show?"

"It's, er, nice, I suppose," answered John, who had stopped paying attention to it a while back.

"Hm," Sherlock said thoughtfully as he returned his attention to the screen. John tried to see what was interesting. From what he can see, there was a woman who was apparently standing before two beautiful ladies but she only had one photo in her hand. One of the ladies looked like she was about to burst into tears. John looked back again to Sherlock who still seemed absorbed with the show.

He licked his lips. Some tea would be nice at the moment. He made to stand up when Sherlock spoke.

"The water will be ready in about a minute," Sherlock said, as clearly as if he'd heard John's thoughts.

"Oh," he hadn't noticed Sherlock putting on the kettle.

With his eyes still on the screen Sherlock stood up and made his way to the kitchen. And of course the man didn't trip over anything despite the mess, which had stubbornly returned after being cleared out hastily when John first came back.

"I can make tea," John offered, “if you want to stay and finish the show.”

“The show’s predictable,” Sherlock answered, now busy with making tea. “The girl on the right is going home.”

“The show’s predictable? Then why are we watching it?” The woman’s voice brought his attention back to the show. The girl on the right did get sent home. “How did you know-” He broke off with a shake of his head. “That was… How do you do that?”

Sherlock returned to the living room with a cup of tea and a satisfied smile on his face. He handed the cup to John before settling back on his chair.

“You know how I work, there’s no secret to it.”

“Right. But it’s still something else to actually see it,” John said. “So how _did_ you know?”

“Mannerisms. The lady holding the pictures always looks longer at the girl that will be sent home.”

They were silent for a moment.

“You guessed, didn’t you?”

“Never.”

John snorted, “Right.” He settled back on his seat with a smile and sipped his perfectly prepared tea. The man was a real genius.

Sherlock watched John relax and start paying more attention to the next program. He knew that this time around John would be taking note of the visual clues and trying to call him on his bluff. That is, if he did bluff. Truthfully, this was the only reason why he put up with watching so much crap telly. It was never boring to watch John, whether he was sleeping (as proven during his hospital stay), just sitting down and watching television like now (but it was more interesting when John tries to catch him), or doing anything else, really. Of course it was much easier to do his John-watching if John stayed in one place and was ideally preoccupied with something so he doesn’t notice how closely he was being observed.

And so John watched television and Sherlock watched John and was still able to successfully predict what was going to happen next, which never ceased to amaze and annoy John. All in all, it was a very good afternoon.


	7. Chapter 7

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t notice you come in,” John said, as he almost collided with Sherlock in the kitchen, bracing himself against Sherlock’s arms which had gone up automatically to steady him.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said, holding him a moment longer in what he would call a hug if it had been anyone else but Sherlock. Sherlock released him but not completely, keeping his hand around his shoulders to steer him to a chair.

Sherlock placed a cup of hot tea that he’d already started preparing on the table in front of him. The kitchen table was the only remaining flat surface that had remained uncluttered. It looks like Sherlock has finally conceded that the dining table was for food and not experiments, at least for the moment.

“Thanks for the tea,” John called out to Sherlock who was now in the living room, picking up the mail and the paper. Really, the man can’t stay still.

“Here,” Sherlock said, as he handed the items to John, turning away quickly to go to the stove before John could say another ‘thank you.’ John decided to cut him some slack; it seemed he was still uncomfortable with displays of gratitude.

The sounds and smells of cooking soon filled the kitchen. It was music to John’s ears and ambrosia to his nose. With a happy sigh, he opened the newspaper and started reading, while waiting for Sherlock to finish preparing breakfast. He could get used to mornings like these.

* * *

Ever since John came home from the hospital, the more days that pass, the more Sherlock needed to be close to him: a fact that was quite irrational and strange, he thought. He knew that it was natural to feel the need to validate someone’s safety immediately after the danger – he’d oftentimes seen survivors clinging to each other, but he supposed that one would feel this need less and less over time, once it was obvious that the danger has passed. But trust him to run contrary to the norm; ever since the incident, it wasn’t enough to verify John’s presence by sight alone. He needed to hear John speak, to smell him as he brushed past, to touch him and feel him shift under his fingers. He needed to validate him with all of his senses, and even after he’d done all that, the need hadn’t abated. If anything, his brain had demanded more data.

He chanced a glance at John who was sitting at the table and reading the paper. He was as surprised as John to find the other in the kitchen, and so when he bumped into him his body had reacted automatically before his brain could say stop, and he practically pulled him into a hug. He had pulled back, but his hand had been stubborn and had remained around John’s shoulder, making the excuse of guiding him to the chair. And then he had suddenly remembered that he had to get the paper and the mail where he’d left them on the side table in the living room, and again he’d remembered that he had to start preparing breakfast and _not_ run his hand across John’s shoulders.

The sound of Mrs. Hudson’s voice calling out as she knocked on the door was like a lifeline. Perhaps with this distraction, he won’t notice his hand itching for another surreptitious brush against John’s shoulder. Or his hair, which was bed-tousled (he most likely slept on his left side) and looked particularly soft (no, he was _not_ going to check if it really was as soft as it looked, more data be damned).

“We’re in the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock answered.

The scene that greeted Mrs. Hudson was one which she never thought she would ever see. John was seated at the table while Sherlock was puttering around the kitchen. She decided that she needed to drop by more often in the morning.

“How are you, Dr. Watson?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“I’m very good, thanks. Sherlock’s been taking good care of me.”

“I bet he has,” Mrs. Hudson said with a wink.

“It’s not-” John began.

“And dear me, Sherlock. Are you cooking?” Mrs. Hudson interrupted, going to where Sherlock was standing by the stove and frying some eggs.

“Yes, I am.”

“Took a while to get there, but we did get there eventually,” John piped in.

“Are you making omelettes?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Plain omelettes, yes. Just how _John_ likes them,” Sherlock said pointedly.

“I like my food ‘plain’. In fact, I insist on it,” John said firmly, knowing from Sherlock’s tone of voice that by ‘plain’ he meant ‘boring’. Sherlock rolled his eyes in silent protest. Mrs. Hudson chuckled.

“Mind if I join you boys for a bit?” Mrs. Hudson asked as she stood by the dining table.

“Oh no, please,” John gestured to the seat across him. A plate of eggs and toast soon joined them on the table. And of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, the eggs were perfectly done. John supposed it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. After all, Sherlock has a scientific turn, which meant that he can be quite precise when it came to measuring, mixing, slicing, heating, etc. Unfortunately, having a scientific turn also meant that he was also quite experimental, which would have been fine had he stayed within reasonable bounds of what was actually edible. John had put his foot down very early on and declared anything that they will actually ingest as off-limits to experiments. Sherlock grumbled (of course) but eventually relented after a particularly nasty experiment (yes, it was an experiment, he wouldn’t call it cooking) with the chicken that left a lingering odour in their flat for days.

Sherlock glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who looked a bit giddy with suppressed glee.

“Did something good happen today, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked as he took a seat beside John. He joined John at the table every morning, even though he didn’t necessarily eat.

“Oh, it’s nothing, dear. It’s just good to see you two together.”

John would’ve said something if his mouth hadn’t been full of those soft fluffy eggs Sherlock just made.

“We’re always together,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Sherlock’s just taking care of me because of my injury,” John clarified, having swallowed his mouthful of food.

“Yes. I’m…what was the term you used? ‘Feeding you up.’” Sherlock agreed.

John looked at Sherlock but didn’t say anything, as he recognized something he said during their first dinner together, about girlfriends feeding up their boyfriends. He can’t really argue against that, not when he was enjoying the breakfast Sherlock made for him. Sherlock was, indeed, feeding him up.

Mrs. Hudson just smiled and continued drinking her tea. Now Sherlock was the detective among the three of them, but she didn’t need the level of his skills to see the easy way they now interacted with each other, or how often Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to John.

Sherlock, for his part, was still horribly distracted by John’s proximity and Mrs. Hudson’s presence didn’t help at all. If anything, her presence made the craving worse because he knew that she was watching both of them (obvious, given the quick darting looks between them and the way she was smiling behind her cup), so now he can’t even lean a little bit slightly to the left so he can catch a whiff of John’s scent – the only piece of data he still needed for today. He’d already seen, heard, and touched John. Perhaps he can cover that by reaching for the mail, although that would be odd since he’d never bothered with the mail before. Even after John was injured, he’d left them for John so he would have something to occupy his time while he’s staying at home and recovering.

He glanced at John once more and saw that he had almost drained his cup. Perfect. He reached across the table where John’s cup was, crowding his personal space as per usual, refilled it, and reached across again to return it to its previous spot. He sat back on his chair with a long exhale. Now that was better.

“Oh, thanks,” John said when everything was done, with him unaware that anything more had happened, or was currently happening.

Mrs. Hudson watched everything with interest.

"So what are you boys up to today? Any new cases?"

"Nope."

"What about the one that Lestrade was asking you about?" John asked.

"Boring."

"It didn't seem boring to me."

"It's obvious that the niece took the necklace. There has been no robbery. Once her old aunt falls asleep, she sneaks out – which is hardly a challenge given that her aunt can probably sleep through a thunderstorm. You can bet on it that girl will be out of that house within the month, if not within the week. They just need to sell the necklace."

"They?"

"Yes, the girl and her boyfriend."

"She has a boyfriend?"

"Of course she does, why do you think she's sneaking out all the time?"

"Right, of course."

"The real mystery here is why Lestrade keeps bringing in boring cases like these."

"Why indeed," John said under his breath.

Mrs. Hudson decided to keep quiet, content herself with watching Sherlock and John, and try to suppress the occasional giggle. If Sherlock hadn't been so preoccupied with his rant against the general dullness of people, he would've picked up on it immediately and so would've got an answer to his earlier question a lot faster. As it is, it would take a few more mornings with Mrs. Hudson and a few more visits with Lestrade, with the two coinciding more and more frequently, before he finally figured it out.


	8. Chapter 8

Life with Sherlock was never boring. Sure, the man may get bored but _he_ is never boring. Brilliant, arrogant, genius, infuriating – these are words that John would use to describe him. Other words have since cropped up – words that he would not normally associate with his flatmate, but have now become quite fitting.

Awkward. Of all things that could catch Sherlock off-balance, John didn’t think that it would be a simple ‘thank you’. Initially it had been his frank and vocal admiration of Sherlock’s intellect that seemed to confuse him – although he had eventually gotten used to it over time, had come to expect it, and predictably, had gotten over it. Now it was replaced by ‘thank you’. He never seemed to know what to do after hearing the words, the first few times always somewhat awkwardly staying still for a moment as if waiting for John to give him instructions as to proper conduct. Eventually, he’d settled for ignoring them by busying himself with whatever happens to be close at hand.

Clueless. Seeing as Sherlock probably hasn’t had to take care of another person, he supposed this should have been expected. However, he has certainly done his part to remedy his cluelessness. He approached his new duties of taking care of John like he would an experiment – testing out different hypotheses and gathering data, which can be sometimes interesting (John remembered all those different flavoured milks and teas) and frequently taxing (those TV marathons were almost enough to wean him off crap telly completely), before coming to a conclusion, which he must concede were quite accurate.

Gentle. This was quite a surprise. When Sherlock changed his bandages, he’d expected the man to be quick, efficient, and detached, as he normally is. And that was what he mostly got, except there was also a gentleness to his touch that spoke of his disinclination to causing him even the slightest discomfort. The only downside to the whole experience was that Sherlock frequently gets into a sombre mood after seeing his injury and usually sits on his chair brooding after the whole procedure is done. He tried early on to let Sherlock know that he can manage on his own, but that only seemed to displease him even more. Unexpectedly (or maybe predictably), it was watching telly which was the most effective in getting him out of those moods. It seems insulting other people’s intelligence has a therapeutic effect on Sherlock.

Close. This one he meant quite literally. Wherever he went inside their flat, it seemed that Sherlock was frequently no more than a few steps away. He had to admit that it was somewhat uncomfortable at first seeing as how the man can loom over him. Now though, it was common to find Sherlock within arm’s reach and that’s where he has come to expect Sherlock to be. However, today was a little different.

“Sherlock, this really is getting ridiculous,” John said.

“What do you mean?”

John gave a cough and looked down at Sherlock’s hands: the right one resting on the keyboard and the left one on the table, which would have been unremarkable except that to achieve this position, Sherlock had to practically drape himself over John.

Sherlock straightened up with a frown. “I know for a fact that your right shoulder is still stiff and typing up your blog entries would be tiring. I also know for a fact that it takes you ages to finish an entry, what with you pecking at the keyboard. It would take you forever to finish now if you take much needed periodic breaks, so I thought I’d come in and help you. Be your right hand, literally. I’m sure I’ll be able to work out what’s the next word you want to type.”

“That’s not the problem.”

“Plus, I can help you by doing some editing on the way.”

“Now _that_ ‘s the problem.”

“Your entries will be much more accurate with my input.”

“I’ve never had any problems with accuracy in my entries; I was there for the cases too, remember?”

“Well, that’s clearly just your opinion.”

“And that’s clearly yours.”

“It’s actually more of an observation,” Sherlock returned. Still, he took a chair beside John and settled for reading over his shoulder instead. John resumed his typing which was even made slower because of his injury.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Sherlock gave a sigh. John continued typing doggedly.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

John noticed movement from the corner of his eye. He looked down to see Sherlock’s hand drumming impatiently on his leg.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

John continued typing even more slowly, a smile slowly forming on his lips.

“John.”

Tap. Tap. A pause. Tap.

“Yes?”

“Let me help.”

Tap. Tap. Backspace, backspace. Tap.

“John,” Sherlock said again, and John could actually hear a bit of desperation in it.

Tap.

“ _Please_.”

John paused in his typing and turned to look at Sherlock.

“No editing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and wordlessly moved the laptop from in front of John to position it where he could more comfortably reach it. He looked at John expectantly. John cleared his throat and started dictating with no small amount of satisfaction.

A few hours later, John was still at the desk and editing his latest blog entry. Clearly, he’d underestimated how fast Sherlock could type. He’d suspected (and had consequently been prepared to do some editing) that Sherlock would be unable to keep from adding his input to the entry. But the sheer amount of what he had been able to squeeze in while John was dictating was frankly staggering.

He sat back, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he’d better just start over.

“What for?” Sherlock asked as he appeared by John’s side, bearing a cup of tea, and replying directly to his thoughts as per usual.

“Because if they wanted a lecture on different kinds of fungi they would read a botany book, not my blog,” John answered automatically. He was really getting used to having these half-mental conversations with Sherlock.

Sherlock handed him the cup of tea, which he took absently. “Ah, thanks.” He took a sip.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment. “You realize that when we have these so-called half-mental conversations, the ‘mental’ part should apply to me since I’m the one utilizing my mental faculties.”

“Sure, Sherlock. You’re mental,” John agreed obligingly.

Sherlock frowned. That wasn’t what he quite meant.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come in!” John called out immediately before Sherlock could say anything.

The door opened to Lestrade.

“Lestrade,” John greeted with a nod and an easy smile.

“I thought I told you not to come here unless there’s been a murder,” Sherlock said by way of greeting to Lestrade.

“Nice to see you too,” Lestrade replied. “You know, this isn’t just your flat. I’m visiting John.” He made his way to the desk where John was. “How are you?”

“Good, thanks. Cup of tea?”

Sherlock scowled as he was ignored. He went to his violin by the window and proceeded to wrangle discordant notes from the instrument.

“Sherlock!” John shouted over the noise.

“Sherlock, is that you making all this noise?” Mrs. Hudson called out as she entered the flat.

Sherlock paused in his playing. He looked at Lestrade and John. “You’re allowed to make meaningless noise – all that chitchat – so I don’t see why I’m not allowed to do the same.”

John cringed as Sherlock positioned the bow over the strings again.

“All right! Here!” Lestrade said, quickly walking towards Sherlock and thrusting an envelope to him before he could start playing again.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “So you _did_ bring something for me.”

“Yeah, you know, just in case.”

Sherlock took the envelope and settled by the window sill. Mrs. Hudson took this chance to take Sherlock’s violin and lock it up in its case. It was quiet for a few moments while Sherlock read the file.

“Really, Lestrade. Do you detectives have so much free time to be handling a ‘missing pets’ case?”

“It’s not just any pet, Sherlock; it’s family and heir apparently to half a million quid.”

“There really should be limits to stupidity,” Sherlock muttered.

“It would make for a great blog entry,” John observed.

“Of course, after all my ‘work’ is merely fodder for your blog.”

“Poor thing though. I wonder how it’s getting along,” Mrs. Hudson chimed in.

Sherlock sighed and continued reading. He still kept an eye out for John though, as the latter talked with Lestrade. He just wanted to make sure that John didn't need anything else. He should've read the files on his chair. He was too far away to hear what they were talking about. Lestrade was facing the rest of the room. Maybe he can try lip reading instead.

"So what does it say about the missing pet?" Mrs. Hudson asked. He forgot about her. With a sigh, he gave up trying to figure out what Lestrade and John were talking about and instead redirected his attention back to the case and Mrs. Hudson.

Meanwhile at John's side of the room, the conversation was starting to get interesting. With Sherlock effectively distracted, Lestrade went immediately to the point.

"Have you noticed how he looks at you?"

"Who?"

Lestrade jerked his head towards Sherlock's direction. John followed his gaze.

"Sherlock?"

"Yeah."

"You mean he's observing me or something? But he always does that. That's his normal look."

"If it were just me I would say that it was just me but..."

"It's not just you."

Lestrade shrugged. John frowned in thought.

“Ah, of course. Mrs. Hudson too. Is that why you two have decided our flat was your favourite place all of a sudden?”

“Free tea and biscuits don’t hurt.”

"Why thank you. And here I thought you were concerned about me."

“Well, that too.”

From the other side of the room Sherlock narrowed his eyes as Lestrade chuckled and gave a light pat on John’s good shoulder. He watched as John shook his head with a grin. He scowled. Mrs. Hudson just wore a satisfied smile.

“You should have Anderson have a look at this case. I imagine that it would be perfect for his level,” Sherlock said quite loudly, interrupting any further conversation.

“Well, that’s not really his area,” Lestrade said. He walked back to Sherlock and took the files from Sherlock’s proffered hand. He looked at Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t say anything.

“So it’s a no, then?” Lestrade asked.

“Unless that cat starts killing people, it’s a no. Actually, even then it’s a no.”

“Right,” Lestrade said as he pocketed the documents once more.

“Maybe you can have the homeless network keep a lookout for it?” John offered.

“There are better uses for their time and my money,” Sherlock dismissed.

John looked at Lestrade and gave a helpless shrug. Lestrade just gave a small smile and a slight shake of his head. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he watched the exchange.

“You knew that I wouldn’t take this case,” Sherlock said pointedly to Lestrade.

“It was a long shot,” Lestrade answered. “Anyway, as I said I came to visit John too. And Mrs. Hudson, of course.”

“You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve got to get back home early.” Lestrade put on his coat once more. “Well then, I’ll see you again!”

“Not until a murder, Lestrade,” Sherlock reminded. Lestrade just gave a final wave before he left. Mrs. Hudson left soon thereafter, saying something about preparing dinner.

It was quiet once more in their flat. But it was all abuzz inside Sherlock’s head. He wanted to know what John and Lestrade talked about and why they were grinning and laughing together. He recalled details of what he’d seen and he was trying to piece everything together when John spoke.

“So, dinner?” asked John expectantly.

“If we must,” Sherlock resigned.

“Most definitely.”


	9. Chapter 9

It was a little unsettling at first – Sherlock’s observing gaze was already intense enough from a distance, and since coming home from the hospital, having it that much closer made John feel like he was a specimen under a microscope sometimes. But he’d slowly gotten used to it. Sherlock’s gaze was now a comfortable and familiar weight, almost like one of his jumpers that he wore all the time and when he doesn’t have it on, it feels like he’s forgotten something.

John was unaware that he was staring at Sherlock until the latter looked at him and their gazes met and locked. John gave a little start – perhaps it wasn’t as comfortable as he thought it was. He hurriedly looked down to his cup of tea, courtesy as per usual, of Sherlock. He could still feel Sherlock looking at him, as palpable and tangible as if Sherlock had placed his hand on him. He shifted a little.

“Is your shoulder still bothering you?” Sherlock asked.

“Hm? Oh, no it’s fine. I’m fine.” John assured immediately over the quiet buzz of the telly.

Sherlock frowned. “Something else is bothering you,” he said with perfect conviction. He was, as usual, correct.

John didn’t know how to answer. But thankfully he didn’t have to because Sherlock, being Sherlock, wanted to figure out the answer himself.

Sherlock thought through the data he had so far. John has just had breakfast, so clearly he didn’t want something to eat. He now has a full cup of tea with him and he already said that his shoulder was fine, so he can cross those two out as well. Perhaps it was the telly this morning?

He looked the telly again, and as far as he knew, it was the same show that they watch every week. He thought John rather liked it, seeing that he never missed an episode of it.

John watched Sherlock try to puzzle it out. He honestly couldn’t think how Sherlock would get the answer right anyway, seeing as the answer to his question was that it was Sherlock’s _stare_ that was bothering him.

John wasn’t a detective on any level even close enough to Sherlock. He certainly wasn’t a professional one like Lestrade. But he thought that he wasn’t unobservant enough that he wouldn’t notice if his flatmate, who was with him 24/7, was giving him some quite, let’s just say for now, “interesting” looks. So he has taken it upon himself to do some investigating of his own.

When John began his "investigations," he didn't know what to expect. He'd begun observing the other man and had been quite surprised to discover during this exercise that their eyes met _very_ frequently. If he had been an observing man like Sherlock, he would've counted just exactly how many times it happened.

'That's the 34th', Sherlock thought, who was an observing man. John had been up for approximately 2 hours (going by the sounds from John’s room that morning) and they had spent 1 hour and 47 minutes in each other's presence and 34 was the number of times their eyes met during that span. It was a lot higher that their usual average. This was the first time this has happened and without prior data, he was not sure what to make of it. Was John trying to tell him something? Did John want him to do something?

John's eyes met his again and he watched as John awkwardly dropped his gaze to Sherlock's exposed neck. Sherlock immediately thought of his scarf and how unexpectedly similar John's gaze to it was, in that his neck was feeling unaccountably warm at the moment. He frowned a bit as he got sidetracked from his original line of thought. He was thinking of the scarf, ah yes, perhaps John wanted to go out for a walk?

"Do you want to go out for a walk?" Sherlock asked.

"Huh? What?" John asked, a little thrown off because of the unexpected question.

Sherlock watched John's reaction closely. It wasn't the surprise of a man who'd just had his exact thoughts read. He was about to suggest an alternative when John spoke again.

"Sure. A walk sounds nice. I could use some fresh air."

* * *

The air outside was cool and crisp; it was perfect for a walk outside. John breathed deeply and found himself relaxing immediately and putting all of those confusing thoughts out of his head for the moment. There was something about being outside that cleared his head.

They fell into step naturally, John lengthening his stride and Sherlock slowing down his pace. They walked together in companionable silence, walking over familiar streets before turning, with unsaid agreement, to the park. They found an empty bench and made their way towards it. John sat back with a satisfied sigh.

“You know, I do believe that this is the first time we’ve gone out together just to…” John looked at Sherlock, at a loss for words.

“Hang out?” Sherlock suggested with a quirk of his eyebrow. John laughed.

“Yes, hang out,” John confirmed, still smiling. He sat back again, closed his eyes, and just breathed deeply. When he opened them again, he wasn’t surprised to find Sherlock staring at him once more.

“So, is this what you do?” Sherlock asked.

“What do you mean?”

“When you say that you have to go out for some air, is this what you do?” Sherlock clarified.

“Sometimes.”

Sherlock waited expectantly.

“Other times, particularly when I feel like hitting _someone,_ I choose a tree, or a rock, or a duck, but not usually, they get all worked up and they quack right back at you, and I shout obscenities at it.”

There was a pause during which Sherlock contemplated what John said.

“You’re not really serious-“

“I’m serious,” John interjected immediately. “They do quack back at you.”

There was another pause.

“A duck,” Sherlock said.

“Yes,” John agreed.

A smile broke out on Sherlock’s face. “That’s absurd.”

“I suppose,” John said with a laugh.

They stayed for a few moments more before they, or rather John, decided that it was about time to have some lunch, so they both got up and started walking once more.

They spent the rest of the day outside, just walking, sitting, talking, thinking sometimes aloud, more often to themselves, but always together. John had been worried at the start that Sherlock would declare the whole affair boring and would suddenly run off to somewhere and he would have to chase after his flatmate once more. Actually, Sherlock almost did, suddenly putting on a burst of speed as something caught his eye. He found Sherlock standing still in the middle of an alleyway, texting, when he finally caught up.

“Ah, John, lovely of you to join me,” Sherlock said as he sent the message. He walked out of the alley again.

“What was that about?” John asked.

“Nothing important for the moment,” Sherlock replied as he continued walking. John fell into step beside him without a word.

“Of course I’ll tell you later,” Sherlock said a little impatiently to John’s unvoiced question. “And no need to be smug about it; I’m doing the one doing the work here.” John tried to bite off the grin forming on his face.

At the end of the day, they found themselves sitting on the park bench again, waiting for the moon to rise. This time, not a word was said between them. Eventually, they conceded that they needed to go back before it got too cold outside. They retraced their steps, but this time more slowly, both wanting to stay longer in the comfortable pocket they fell into at the park.

It seemed very natural to walk just that little bit closer to each other so that their arms brushed the other’s. It seemed natural to lean down or edge up higher to share a few words, said softly between the two of them. It was also completely natural when John almost walked into a display stall because he was paying so much attention to Sherlock and so little to where he was going. After that, it was common sense for Sherlock to keep a hand on John’s shoulder to prevent any future accidents, never mind that the rest of the way was clear.

John happened to catch a glimpse of themselves as they passed a shop window and all of sudden, he understood what Lestrade said about the way Sherlock looks at him. He realised he’s missed it because it was so familiar; he’s seen it countless times. It was true what Sherlock said: he sees but he doesn’t observe. He stopped abruptly, halting Sherlock immediately as well.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked even as his eyes darted around the area, no doubt observing every detail. John just raised his hand to point at the window.

Immediately, Sherlock’s gaze followed. He frowned.

“It’s a pastry shop,” Sherlock stated flatly, obviously.

“It’s us,” John corrected.

And there they both were, reflected faintly on the glass: Sherlock, standing tall and close, with his hand still curled protectively on John’s shoulder; and John, solid and real, and leaning slightly towards Sherlock’s side.

John looked more closely again. Perhaps it was the warm light from the interior of the bakery, but Sherlock’s gaze looked soft as he relaxed and met John’s eyes through the glass. John smiled a bit at that, which widened when Sherlock returned it hesitantly.

“So it is,” Sherlock agreed.


	10. Chapter 10

John’s hair was as soft as it looked.

This had been a previous point of great interest and something that Sherlock wanted to confirm since he first noticed it, but a chance hadn’t presented itself until now. This chance being John falling asleep pressed against his side, his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, and a book clasped loosely in his hand. Sherlock turned his head to his side and breathed deeply, and ran his fingers gently through John’s hair again. John stirred a bit at this and Sherlock immediately stilled and only relaxed when John settled down once more. He didn’t want to wake John up; he wanted to stay here as long as he could. This was the first time John had fallen asleep against him, and as he had no way of telling if this would happen again in the future, he wanted to prolong the experience as much as possible.

Or perhaps there was a way he could recreate the circumstances that led to this event.

Earlier that day Lestrade had come in for a visit, which was really unnecessary at this point, Sherlock thought. It wasn’t as if he gave any information about the case that couldn’t be conveyed via email, and it wasn’t as if he needed to “visit” John. Nevertheless, the detective inspector was at their flat this afternoon, asking his opinion on a case that he was working on.

While Sherlock was looking over the files, Lestrade had dragged John to the kitchen for some tea-making, which was a move that Sherlock did not appreciate one bit. He thought that the least Lestrade could do was stay within earshot if he wasn’t going to provide him more details on the case.

Lestrade more or less crowded John into the kitchen, making the excuse of wanting some tea. John obligingly walked ahead and got started on it. He put the kettle on and then he turned to look expectantly at Lestrade. There was a certain air of smugness about him.

“Now you’re looking at him the same way,” Lestrade stated without preamble.

“I don’t-…” John began immediately. He looked again at Lestrade’s smug smile. “I do, don’t I?” he said with a grimace.

“Yeah, you do.”

“Well, if he noticed, he hasn’t said anything.”

“Who knows what he makes of it,” Lestrade said with a shrug. “He probably doesn’t know what it means.”

“That’s…actually very possible,” John agreed slowly. He gestured around the kitchen which was now littered with all sorts of sweets and pastries.

“Did you buy the whole pastry shop?”

“Not me, him,” John said with a sigh. “It seems he interprets it as my ‘I want something sweet’ look.”

“You’ve got an awful lot of sweets here,” Lestrade observed with a grin.

“Oh, just shut it and take a cookie,” John said, pushing Lestrade out of the kitchen, who almost bumped into Sherlock, just walking in.

“I…” Sherlock started, looking at Lestrade (huge grin on his face, holding a cookie), John (red, looking embarrassed), the kettle (dutifully boiling water for the tea), “thought that perhaps there was something wrong with the stove. I guess not,” he finished.

“No, he just couldn’t choose what he wanted to eat,” John answered quickly. Sherlock frowned at Lestrade.

“That’s for John.” Sherlock looked ready to snatch the cookie away. Lestrade promptly took a huge bite out of it. Sherlock now looked ready to murder a certain detective inspector.

“It’s fine; I gave it to him,” John said exasperatedly. He can’t believe he’s practically breaking up two grown men over a cookie. Sherlock stepped aside and let Lestrade through, glaring at him the whole time before going to John’s side.

“All right?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s just a cookie, Sherlock,” John answered.

“That’s not what I meant. You just seemed a bit…uncomfortable,” Sherlock finished with a vague wave of his hand, not entirely sure how to classify John’s state as he’d never seen John flustered in this manner before.

“No, uh…we were just talking,” John replied. He coughed and looked away from Sherlock’s watchful gaze as he recalled his conversation with Lestrade. He wondered if Sherlock heard anything. “Anyway, tea,” he said as his eyes lighted on the kettle, hoping to create a distraction. “You just go ahead and talk with Lestrade about the case.”

“He said something,” Sherlock said, stubbornly refusing to go without at least saying something.

“Yes, as I said, we were talking.”

“What about?”

“The pastries.” John now had this obstinate look about him. He clearly didn’t want to discuss this right now.

Sherlock hesitated before finally going back to the living room and proceeded to make life difficult for Lestrade by giving him obscure hints and asking for ridiculous amounts of data, saying that they are all relevant to solving the case that Lestrade half-suspected Sherlock had already figured out.

Lestrade grumbled, John sighed and gave Sherlock a stern look, which made Sherlock sigh in turn before relenting grudgingly, and in the end Lestrade was promising to bring a box of cookies for John the next time he comes to visit. This brought about a truce between the two detectives. No one was paying attention to John saying that he didn’t need another box of cookies.

Things settled down once more in the flat after Lestrade left. However, Sherlock noted that John wasn’t in the best of moods at the moment. Perhaps getting Lestrade to promise the cookies wasn’t enough.

“Shall we go out for a walk?” Sherlock offered. After their initial walk, Sherlock has discovered a number of things about it: it puts John in a better mood, it helps him think, and he (surprisingly) likes it. John gave him a small smile before he put on his jacket and in a few seconds they were both out of the flat, and in a few minutes, they were once more sitting together on the park bench.

It was late afternoon and the sun shone with a lazy warmth that painted John’s skin with a soft glow. As Sherlock expected, the tension around John released and he looked relaxed once more. Sherlock unconsciously shifted closer, half-formed thoughts about how warm John looked and about how soft his hair must be chasing tails around his head. And then John turned and gave him that look he gave him by the pastry shop: a look which he has been receiving more and more often. Not that he was complaining. He didn’t even mind that half of his money now goes to purchasing pastry.

As the minutes passed and the warm glow of the sun faded softly into the cooler tones of the evening, they picked themselves up once more and started their way back home. They stopped by the Thai restaurant for some takeaway; John said he wanted to get home to watch some series he was following. Sherlock almost made it inside the pastry shop once they resumed the walk home but was ultimately prevented so by John.

“I thought you wanted something from the pastry shop,” Sherlock said, confused.

“No, Sherlock,” John said firmly. “Nothing from the pastry shop.”

Sherlock conceded only because of the grip John had on his arm. There was no arguing there. But he was positive that he had read John’s look correctly earlier.

“It’s not the pastries, Sherlock,” John relented, figuring he has to say something now or else Sherlock was going to clear out the shop.

“Hm,” Sherlock said as his look turned speculative.

“Come on, the food’s getting cold and I’ve got a show to catch.”

They made it back to the flat with some time to spare. Sherlock raised his eyebrows as John moved to reposition the TV set. Sherlock realised he wanted to position it so it would be visible from the sofa. He stepped in to help John and moved one of the chairs aside.

“Thanks,” John said. Sherlock gave a slight nod.

John took one of the cartons of food and settled in on the sofa. He looked up expectantly at Sherlock who was still standing off to the side.

“Aren’t you joining me?”

Sherlock hated repetition so he never had to be asked twice. He went and sat down beside John and obligingly took the other carton of food.

So they sat and ate together. Sherlock or John may have moved closer after they’ve put down the food. And even after the show was finished, neither of them made any move to get up, instead finding more reasons to stay seated there. John found a book to read, Sherlock took the laptop. Eventually, John had fallen asleep; the combination of food, the late hour, and Sherlock’s warmth all working together in a comforting blend that proved irresistible.

At the first touch of John’s head against Sherlock’s shoulder, he stiffened and called out, “John?” uncertainly. John’s deep breaths answered him. He carefully closed the laptop and placed it to his side. He sat there, waiting, not exactly sure what to do in this situation. It was the first time anyone had fallen asleep on him; until John, no one had quite let their guard down enough around Sherlock. Yet here is an ex-army doctor, someone who has been on guard and watchful even in sleep, just resting against him. He feels the weight of John’s trust and strangely enough, it grounds him and he supports John more solidly. John let out a contented sigh as Sherlock adjusted himself, leaning a bit more heavily against him.

So, a walk, some takeaway, some crap telly, and a sofa. Sherlock shook his head in some disbelief. Who knew that a combination of these would bring about such contentment? He brushed John’s hair away from his forehead once more and finally dared to lean back against him and into his warmth. 


End file.
